Hi everyone, I want to add another voice here. My friend Mark worked for decades outside as a carpenter in Maine, including during the often-bitter winters. He and Deb now spend their winters in FL. He says he's thought about spending a winter here now, but the winter he once loved doesn't exist. He beautifully articulates much of what I was after with this essay:
“What’s odd is knowing that it’ll never happen, not because I’m not around, but because winter isn’t… that “good stuff” is gone. Winter as I knew it, the winter I spent so many days and months and years with as an adult, the winter that worked its way into my body, mind and spirit, that occupied my soul from late November when it arrived with its challenge, until it moved on in early April every year… releasing me, taking its leave to my relief… departing with a warning whisper of “see you next year,” those winters are gone. As are the winters of my childhood, judging by the snow-filled slides my father and I have been going through. So it’s easier to be away from here during those months somehow. Because here may still be here… but it’s a different here now. I’m not around as much, and neither is winter.”
Jason, this is such beautiful writing. Every sentence is a little poem unto itself. And your photos hold the same poetic vision. I have been trying to write my own ode to the loss of winter here on the coast of Maine and have come up with only cliches. Absence as you so beautifully demonstrate is filled with abundance. I am going to print this essay out and read it slowly and treasure it.
Thank you, Kathleen. To be honest, the writing was rushed this week because of visiting family, so I'm happy that the sentences hold together. I would have liked another few days to sit with it.
Elegies are hard, but once you find a way in the writing will flow.
Thank you for such beautiful writing (and photos) highlighting the value of winter. Here in the South of England we have barely had any frost this winter let alone snow.
Thank you, Ruth. It's a strange thing to bear witness to, isn't it? The world shifts before our eyes. But perhaps not as strange as our going about our business regardless.
Thank you for sharing what many of us are experiencing; the death of winter. Lament is something we need to do to help us take action. Having grown up in NE Ohio in the 1970s, our winters were impressive. By January, my yard would be pockmarked with little snow caves I would carve out and crawl into from the snow drift in the back yard or the mounds of snow from shoveling the driveway. Making two 5-6 foot high snowpeople for the front-yard didn't even put a dent in all the snow available to me. I learned to ice skate on the ponds that 2 neighbors had. Neighborhood kids would spend the entire winter school break on those ponds and President's Day would likely be our last weekend on it safely. One of those ponds is now covered over with a house on it and I was told the other just is never safe to go out onto. I've lived in the south for many years now and I look forward to going to OH to see family in the winter; but be it Thanksgiving or Christmas, we never get lucky enough to see snow stick to the ground and stay there. My son, Gen. Z, will never experience what I was so blessed to play in as a child. Forgive us for what we have done and what we have failed to do.
Thanks for these memories. It connects with my time here in New England, with the deep snow and long skating seasons. Now ice is transient and snow is fleeting. You may have moved south but the south has moved north... and who knows what we've begun to unleash. Be well, and thanks again for chiming in.
I grew up in the south, without anything close to what I would call a "true" winter. I now live in Wyoming, and I'm about to head to Argentina for the next 9 months, giving me 3 winters back to back. Many people have asked me if I'm prepared for that and I always tell them that I'm excited about it. I've fallen in love with winter, with snow, with all of the shapes that water can take in freezing temperatures. I have yet to get bored of it.
I think I also just love the change of the seasons. I often joke that I grew up with "summer" and "summer light," and I find deep joy in the transition from one season to the next, regardless of which season it is. Variety is the spice of life after all.
Winter may be the "hard" season, but with the caveat of the comforts of modern life (i.e. a warm and cozy house to come back to), it might just be my favorite.
It does make all the difference to have that cozy house waiting, but I'm glad to hear you've converted to winters and distinct seasons. It feels like home to me. And I'm sure you'll love your three back-to-back winters. I used to work in Antarctica, and friends from Alaska used to bounce back and forth between polar summers (lots and lots of light), but they were summers that still came with plenty of snow and ice. I got so used to Antarctic summers that it was weird to return to the dark Maine winters.
Thank you, Catherine. I do like to come back to pieces like this after getting in too deep to the heavier research. The balance between articulating what's happening vs. celebrating what we have is tricky.
Thank you for this gorgeous and necessary work of love. I’m glad to have found you here! (Thanks to a note that came up, posted by another reader.) I look forward to reading more.
I have always loved the winter. Here in southeast Michigan this year, we only had a few disconnected weeks of cold and snow. It felt more like perpetual November with a little bit of balmy thrown in.
"Perpetual November" is a great descriptor, Michelle. I've been thinking that here in coastal Maine we're aiming for a fall-to-mud-season transition, skipping winter altogether.
Oh man, yes! The mud. And then the Dry. Strange extremes . . .
Jason, I really resonate with what you are doing. I want to invite you to look at my most recent offering here, if you have time. I think you might appreciate it. I recorded an audio track for it, but I recommend looking at the photos if you decide to check it out.
Your essay is wonderful, Michelle. Thank you. Heather and I were just talking about looking for skunk cabbage today. We're late to do so, I think, and certainly the snow those lovely warm plants would melt has already melted. For the last couple spring we've meant to put a small thermometer in one, before it opens, to see just how hot it can get.
Excellent idea! The elementary science teacher in me is smiling wide. I could fell the warmth when I touched it, but sadly I did not see one emerging in snow this year. I swiped that photo from somewhere else. Thank you for reading my piece Jason. I love the community I am discovering here on the stack
Thank you for reminding us of all that winter holds. It is in our collective memory, if we can sustain it, that we will be driven to alter our habits which conflict with natural systems.
So kind, Katharine. Thank you. And such true lines. At this point, nearly every other species is a witness to some or many aspects of the changes we've made. People are only now catching up. We are, as Robin Wall Kimmerer reminds us, the younger sibling in the community of life, still learning and always likely to be a bit behind the curve. (Speaking as a younger sibling, though, I'd like to vouch for our creativity and openmindedness....)
Thank you, Lor. And yes, may we never lose winter to the memory of previous generations. That's us, I guess, living in the past of residents of a hotter world.
Hi everyone, I want to add another voice here. My friend Mark worked for decades outside as a carpenter in Maine, including during the often-bitter winters. He and Deb now spend their winters in FL. He says he's thought about spending a winter here now, but the winter he once loved doesn't exist. He beautifully articulates much of what I was after with this essay:
“What’s odd is knowing that it’ll never happen, not because I’m not around, but because winter isn’t… that “good stuff” is gone. Winter as I knew it, the winter I spent so many days and months and years with as an adult, the winter that worked its way into my body, mind and spirit, that occupied my soul from late November when it arrived with its challenge, until it moved on in early April every year… releasing me, taking its leave to my relief… departing with a warning whisper of “see you next year,” those winters are gone. As are the winters of my childhood, judging by the snow-filled slides my father and I have been going through. So it’s easier to be away from here during those months somehow. Because here may still be here… but it’s a different here now. I’m not around as much, and neither is winter.”
Jason, this is such beautiful writing. Every sentence is a little poem unto itself. And your photos hold the same poetic vision. I have been trying to write my own ode to the loss of winter here on the coast of Maine and have come up with only cliches. Absence as you so beautifully demonstrate is filled with abundance. I am going to print this essay out and read it slowly and treasure it.
Thank you, Kathleen. To be honest, the writing was rushed this week because of visiting family, so I'm happy that the sentences hold together. I would have liked another few days to sit with it.
Elegies are hard, but once you find a way in the writing will flow.
Thank you for such beautiful writing (and photos) highlighting the value of winter. Here in the South of England we have barely had any frost this winter let alone snow.
Thank you, Ruth. It's a strange thing to bear witness to, isn't it? The world shifts before our eyes. But perhaps not as strange as our going about our business regardless.
Thank you for sharing what many of us are experiencing; the death of winter. Lament is something we need to do to help us take action. Having grown up in NE Ohio in the 1970s, our winters were impressive. By January, my yard would be pockmarked with little snow caves I would carve out and crawl into from the snow drift in the back yard or the mounds of snow from shoveling the driveway. Making two 5-6 foot high snowpeople for the front-yard didn't even put a dent in all the snow available to me. I learned to ice skate on the ponds that 2 neighbors had. Neighborhood kids would spend the entire winter school break on those ponds and President's Day would likely be our last weekend on it safely. One of those ponds is now covered over with a house on it and I was told the other just is never safe to go out onto. I've lived in the south for many years now and I look forward to going to OH to see family in the winter; but be it Thanksgiving or Christmas, we never get lucky enough to see snow stick to the ground and stay there. My son, Gen. Z, will never experience what I was so blessed to play in as a child. Forgive us for what we have done and what we have failed to do.
Thanks for these memories. It connects with my time here in New England, with the deep snow and long skating seasons. Now ice is transient and snow is fleeting. You may have moved south but the south has moved north... and who knows what we've begun to unleash. Be well, and thanks again for chiming in.
I grew up in the south, without anything close to what I would call a "true" winter. I now live in Wyoming, and I'm about to head to Argentina for the next 9 months, giving me 3 winters back to back. Many people have asked me if I'm prepared for that and I always tell them that I'm excited about it. I've fallen in love with winter, with snow, with all of the shapes that water can take in freezing temperatures. I have yet to get bored of it.
I think I also just love the change of the seasons. I often joke that I grew up with "summer" and "summer light," and I find deep joy in the transition from one season to the next, regardless of which season it is. Variety is the spice of life after all.
Winter may be the "hard" season, but with the caveat of the comforts of modern life (i.e. a warm and cozy house to come back to), it might just be my favorite.
It does make all the difference to have that cozy house waiting, but I'm glad to hear you've converted to winters and distinct seasons. It feels like home to me. And I'm sure you'll love your three back-to-back winters. I used to work in Antarctica, and friends from Alaska used to bounce back and forth between polar summers (lots and lots of light), but they were summers that still came with plenty of snow and ice. I got so used to Antarctic summers that it was weird to return to the dark Maine winters.
I’m so glad to know your work. This - your meditation on winter- is my favorite piece yet.
Thank you, Catherine. I do like to come back to pieces like this after getting in too deep to the heavier research. The balance between articulating what's happening vs. celebrating what we have is tricky.
Your photographs are so beautiful Jason. 'transformation and transience' is enchanting!
Thank you for this gorgeous and necessary work of love. I’m glad to have found you here! (Thanks to a note that came up, posted by another reader.) I look forward to reading more.
I have always loved the winter. Here in southeast Michigan this year, we only had a few disconnected weeks of cold and snow. It felt more like perpetual November with a little bit of balmy thrown in.
"Perpetual November" is a great descriptor, Michelle. I've been thinking that here in coastal Maine we're aiming for a fall-to-mud-season transition, skipping winter altogether.
Oh man, yes! The mud. And then the Dry. Strange extremes . . .
Jason, I really resonate with what you are doing. I want to invite you to look at my most recent offering here, if you have time. I think you might appreciate it. I recorded an audio track for it, but I recommend looking at the photos if you decide to check it out.
https://open.substack.com/pub/comingtoground/p/a-spring-harbinger-from-the-underworld?r=3a7vv&utm_medium=ios
Your essay is wonderful, Michelle. Thank you. Heather and I were just talking about looking for skunk cabbage today. We're late to do so, I think, and certainly the snow those lovely warm plants would melt has already melted. For the last couple spring we've meant to put a small thermometer in one, before it opens, to see just how hot it can get.
Excellent idea! The elementary science teacher in me is smiling wide. I could fell the warmth when I touched it, but sadly I did not see one emerging in snow this year. I swiped that photo from somewhere else. Thank you for reading my piece Jason. I love the community I am discovering here on the stack
Thank you for reminding us of all that winter holds. It is in our collective memory, if we can sustain it, that we will be driven to alter our habits which conflict with natural systems.
That's nicely said, Serena. Thank you.
Jason, i'm working on a piece that begins with lines from a Jess Housty poem:
"Stories require witnesses
and the witnesses are not always
human kin."
We are fortunate that you are such an astute witness beyond the human world.
with gratitude for your work, katharine🌱
So kind, Katharine. Thank you. And such true lines. At this point, nearly every other species is a witness to some or many aspects of the changes we've made. People are only now catching up. We are, as Robin Wall Kimmerer reminds us, the younger sibling in the community of life, still learning and always likely to be a bit behind the curve. (Speaking as a younger sibling, though, I'd like to vouch for our creativity and openmindedness....)
What a beautiful ode to my favorite season .
May it never turn into
a fable.
Thank you, Lor. And yes, may we never lose winter to the memory of previous generations. That's us, I guess, living in the past of residents of a hotter world.